Forbidden Dragon: The BlogGall of Marlo Dianne

Sock It To Me

2011-09-22T18:37:00.003-03:00

I was in a store the other day, and they were selling 'handmade' socks in a bin.

I know it sounds pissy, but they weren't even made WELL. It was like someone's first crack at a new pattern and they got lost, and it was like 70% utter fubar. I mean, I think it NEEDED its label of 'socks'.

Also, they were a hideous...sort of...muddy shade of grey AND super crazy coarse yarn. It was like they ripped the wool off the poor sheep themselves. And the sheep had been caught in burr bushes. And fallen in a muddy dirt pile. I hope they got the poor thing medical attention.

But the worst was yet to come.

I hand knit socks all the time. People love them. They ADORE them, but they won't pay for them. Forget time, skills, and labour, they won't pay enough to cover your yarn costs. And I don't buy expensive yarn. It's full of allergens and irritants. You might as well scrub off your flesh with a Brillo pad as you soak yourself in concentrated acid all day. Good luck with that.

Being an artist, I use LOTS of materials. While I always get the highest quality I can, that's almost never actually 'the expensive stuff', and, of course, high volume and careful detailed planning--this is my career, remember--means I can usually score some discounts, even on really great supplies.

So this is high demand item, with each pair taking at least a week of hand stitching to make, and I can't even sell it at cost. People want it, YES, but they actually expect it for free. Seriously.

(And I've checked with other artists: it's not a me problem. People DEEPLY value handmade things, but not enough to trade money for them. Not even a token amount of money. Not even for a charity drive.)

So...

I've tried to sell socks for $15; I might as well have asked for 15k.

It's insane.

And those disgusting ratty socks in the bin? Their tag said, and I swear I quote:

"$65"

I snorted / choked so hard, I might have lost some spleen.

Whoa.

Uh...good luck with that?

I'm Pretty Sure This Falls Under Blasphemy....

2011-09-22T16:49:00.003-03:00

My brain gets stunned many times in a day.

It knows better--it's known better AT LEAST since I was three--but supersaturated stupidity or cruelty still just...stuns it somehow. I can't imagine why.

Sometimes, it gets smacked so hard, it just STOPS. And I swear it's not going to reboot.

Which leads us to this.

Oh, yes, I took screenshots! I did not want to give the site traffic. Although, I did not spare them shame. I didn't obscure or crop their banner. So...do as you will.

I also went screenshot because I wasn't sure how long it could exist, before a deity of faith or language--glowing and floating in righteous rage, natch-- nuked it to oblivion.

We can only hope they spare the internet...

(No fear, these previews only link to larger versions of the screenshot...)

This is also in the alt tag of the image, but in case you can't read the image or the alt tags--

(See Footnote)

Brace yourself.

Here we go, quoting exactly:

"Jeus was an extraordinary healer. Nearly a quarter of the gospels describe his powers over sickness. To the downtrodden, he taught restraint and charity in the face of opression. As a result, the powerless learned to maintain dignity without being arrogant. He delivered this message to the people: "Yo dawgs, y'all best buy my action from Accoutrements."

/end quote

NO. Just NO. Just--

Hell--to the bell, to the well, to the spell--NO.

"Jeus"?

"opression"?

"Accoutrements"?

And hell no, go DIAF--in fact, Hell will do nicely. I'm pretty sure Jesus was not a moral sucking whore, of products or other things, and even is he was really desperate to pay the rent, and his dad had cut him off, I know full fucking well Jesus did NOT speak like a badly programmed hybrid cyborg of Drunk-Paula and Randy Jackson.

Sure, he didn't speak English. Being Jewish, I'm guessing his preferred language was Jewish, and I'm sure it was as poetic and beautiful as anything Shakespeare tossed down over lunch.

(Hey, even if you refused to read them, I know you've SEEN the massive chunk of slab that is just the SURVIVING works of Shakespeare. Even printed, as the twits do, in bacteria font, it's still, basically, legally defined as a tree. To be that prolific, he must have kept going while he ate, while he peed, while he slept...I imagine he probably knocked out at least a three act DURING his own death scene.)

Also, Jesus would kick your fucking ass. He would kick it so hard, he created the B.C. Ask the moneylenders in the temple. No one is as brutal as an assumed 'pacifist'. If you commit to righting wrongs, well, pretty words and kindness, don't usually work.

Jesus was seriously badass.

He was also a decent man. And his fate is what happens to decent men...

FOOTNOTES:

1. Alt Tags:

Firefox 7.0: Hey! No really! HEY! We finally fixed the fucking blinding full screen screaming white weapons of destruction, seizure, and migraine that we introduced--only because of pure hatred of all humanity--with EVERY page load in 4.0. But we STILL refuse to show you alt tags on hover. You WILL learn not to be disabled! YOU WILL!! (tm)

I don't know. It seems kind of long for a tagline to me. But it DOES fit with their coding practices, so...

Arsenic is Organic Too! All Natural!

2011-09-17T23:25:00.002-03:00

"Hydraulic Acid."

--Colin Mochrie ('Hydraulic') and Brad Sherwood ('Acid'), during the 'Two Headed Person' skit, with the Subject / Title "Organic Chemistry", on Drew Carey's Improv-A-Ganza S01E23

Brad! I haven't actually worked in a lab since 1998, and I still winced, cringed, and had to look away in despair / 2nd hand embarrassment. My labcoat is crammed away in a molecular array in a corner of my closet--the Dragon Lair is Itty Bitty--but I swear I can still hear its muffled sobbing...

Phoenix (May 1st 1995 - June 9, 2011)

2011-06-09T23:29:00.002-03:00

Diagnosed: Renal Lymphoma 10/10/10.
Prognosis: Less than a month to live.

Actual Outcome: My son fought a brutal disease, and he fought HARD. He fought every day, every moment, for nine months. His body gave out on him, never his will. When cancer beat him, he was a third of his body weight, the cancer had consumed both kidneys and was attacking his brain, and he was STILL fighting to stay with us...

Phoenix
May 1st 1995 - 10:10pm, June 9, 2011
Precious Sun
Brave Adventurer
Family Forever

It just Keeps Coming...

2011-06-03T17:44:00.003-03:00

Phoenix is back in the hospital.

We knew he was losing ground. He couldn't eat, or drink. We had to give him subcutaneous fluids--we were dosing him every night with an IV bag through a needle just under his skin--to keep him hydrated. Sometimes he would shake with the effort of walking and stumble, and he would shake hard as he tried to crouch to lie down. I had to help him lie down yesterday. He couldn't do it. And I've had to wrap him not just in a blanket, but drape a heating pad over him; he was just so cold.

He couldn't stop drooling today. I was quite handy with the Kleenex, but I was worried about the fluid he was using--and the look. He had the same broken look...just before he was diagnosed.

My worry was enough that the SU came home from work, and took him to the hospital for tests.

The cancer has made a comeback. A big one.

Fuck.

They're keeping him overnight, and giving him Elspar.

The SU authorised them giving him this drug when he was first diagnosed with renal lymphoma. I didn't get told until afterward that it was his only chance to live even one more day, and that it causes an anaphylactic reaction in 30% of patients.

It's so potent that it's only given as single dose, and it's always a random call, whether it will knock back the cancer, or just kill you both outright.

But there's one other thing. While they cycle all chemo treatments. they usually don't come back around to Elspar. Not just because it's a last ditch drug, but because it loses most of its effectiveness if the patient survives the first dose. The only reason to come back to it is they literally have nothing else they can do...

My poor little boy...

And last week, J., my best friend of twenty years had to go the ER to get diagnosed with breast cancer. Why? Because a bitch doctor raised the bar on stupid and spiteful. Sure, J. was complaining for TWO MONTHS about an enormous lump that could not only be felt but actually fucking SEEN. Sure, J., a frequent migraine survivor, insisted she was in enormous pain. But all that didn't mean shit. J. was dismissed as a pest and a drama queen. Why? Because people our age can't get cancer.

Seriously.

Fucking SERIOUSLY.

Where the actual fuck are doctors getting their schooling and training? Are they beating them in the head with a lead pipe--and force-feeding them flakes of the lead that fly off--just so they'll make sure they have enough fucking attitude and brain damage to make absolutely certain they'll kill more people than they help? For Fuck's Sake...

Hissyfit (May 1st 1999 - April 24, 2011)

2011-04-27T09:13:00.002-03:00

Hissyfit
May 1st 1999 - 1:25 P.M., April 24, 2011
Beloved Daughter
Devoted Guardian
Family Forever

Come Back

2011-04-12T13:16:00.002-03:00

While they were confirming Pheen's infection, they were thorough and ran other tests. The ultrasound showed that his kidney was reenveloped by a mass. So they did another aspiration test. To get a sample of anything suspicious, they slide in a long very thin needle, and suck up a little bit to test. It's like a biopsy, but far less invasive.

They got the results they were expecting, once they saw the ultrasound. His cancer has grown back WHILE he was on chemo.

Of course, the break from chemo, that was supposed to give him two months of a normal life, is now impossible. The cancer specialist had to create a new regimen, something much stronger. He starts Thursday.

It's going to be horrible. It took months--and several more meds--to get his body adjusted to low dose chemo, to the point where he only felt miserable about half of the week. And the terror of infections will also be more grim...

Low

2011-04-11T09:21:00.004-03:00

Phoenix is at the ER. He just had his 'last' (for now) chemo treatment. They were ready to declare him in remission. Now...Their best case guess is infection. That is not a best case for someone with Cancer and chemo :|

Since Hissy started chemo, she refuses to eat. She's on meds for nausea and to increase her appetite. Nothing. Her bitchitude is stronger than anything medicine can throw at her. The SU is syringe feeding her, but she's still losing weight...

I should be at the ER myself, but the guys come before me--always. My disease is really amping up, especially with pain. And I discovered I've got another spinoff disease: anemia. But I wasn't supposed to know that. Apparently, every bloodtest I've ever had, I've come back as anemic. But my fucking moron doctor decided I wasn't anemic ENOUGH, for it to mentioned, let alone treated.

So how did I find out? The SU was calling the doctor's office, as usual, trying to get my results. There is a new nurse/receptionist in the rotation. She somehow wasn't taught the 'we outright lie to patients, so we can just dismiss them with disgust, and they can't do shit'. Instead, she made me an appt, saying this was serious, and my doctor would want to talk to me about treatment. I'm sure 'never speak the truth' and 'never assume a doctor gives a shit' have been well beaten into her now.

And I have to go back to the same doctor this afternoon for an allergy shot. I was supposed to get it in the same appt where I was told my blood tests were normal. And I had to counter with anemia. And, whether caught in a fucking lie or bored out of his mind, my doctor started hyperactive scrolling though all my blood tests. Then I got the 'you've always come back with this. But you're usually only 20 points below the minimum, and we are not going to treat that.'

See, to me, the minimum IS the lowest you can go. That's the whole point. They have designated a range as safe and healthy. Being outside of that IS a problem. Fuck.

Then he refused to let his nurse give me my allergy shot because, "The day is over. We go home now."

Uh, yeah I know there is a closing time. But I also know that my appt time had plenty of time for an allergy shot. It's not MY fault if you drag your feet or make too many appts. It's a two hour trip to the doctor. With me in agony. Which I now know is probably made worse by anemia. But who the hell knows what other diseases I have that he decided weren't important enough to share...

My Girl

2011-02-24T21:36:00.003-04:00

Hissyfit is finally home after being released from hospital.

For now.

They want her back soon for chemo.

She spent her day lying on a pillow I put down for her. A princess deserves a dais. But a princess who has been sliced open like a fish, from under her chin, all the way down, deserves whatever she fucking wants.

I've tried to comfort her, but--for the first time in her existence--she doesn't want to be talked to, or petted, or anything. I was the only one who could get her to purr and even EAT at the hospital. But now, she just wants me to GTFO and DIAF.

It hurts so much to see her like this, and its worse because she's given me utter devotion
and support through my illness. I was looking forward to the honour of giving her back any small comfort I could.

So I've lost comfort both ways.

The doctors say she's going really well. The actual word used was 'amazing'. She's lost a lot of weight, but over late summer and into fall she has gone from her scrawny self to, well, ball shaped. I think she ate her feelings.

But that gave her reserves, so after not eating for a week, she looks normal sized. She's eating now, but she's having a horrible time digesting her food. Missing most of your intestine will do that. Her doctors insist she'll adjust. They also insisted that after what we've done with Phoenix, they expect to be treating her--and him--for years.

That choked me up a bit.

But hey, if it was all on stubbornness, refusing to give up or let go, they can fucking count on it...

Cancer Like Lightning

2011-02-18T19:58:00.002-04:00

While I was lying in her cage at the hospital, talking and petting in such a way that she could not resist the goo and the purr, we got confirmation.

The biopsy of Hissyfit's tumour confirmed she has terminal lymphoma.

Yes, the same cancer as Phoenix, and only months after his diagnosis.

And they aren't even biological siblings.

It just...breaks all reason.

And hearts. Those the deepest.

Although, once again, we are as blessed as we are cursed. The tumour had ruptured her bowel, flooding her abdomen with bacteria. It would have killed her in less than two days.

Bless all for this family's closeness, and, even more important, crazy ass stubbornness...

Operation Stealth Ninja Glittery Pink Rhino Project

2011-02-16T15:55:00.003-04:00

I have received my Rhino Piece from our Supreme Overlord / Badass Angel.

Curse you, Canada Post! I'm in Group 2, 31 of 61.

Although...it actually arrived here, even with its envelope gutted. Something CP likes to do to all my mail it doesn't actually lose or utterly destroy.

Through slicing open and taking whatever they find interesting, CP has most of my contributor copies. I mean, really now. Do they truly think those are going to become precious? And they always send along the empty envelope, so I know what they did.

But although this envelope was sliced open, somehow,the Rhino Piece arrived. In pristine condition. A miracle? Or Canada Post's trembling fear of our Overlord?

I think we all know the answer to that.

Now, I just need to find the other 60 minions of Group 2...

Torn Apart

2011-02-14T16:35:00.003-04:00

Hissy has just gone in for emergency surgery.

The tumour they found in her abdomen--Stop. I know. But the concept of irony and its bitter funny? Just makes me feel sick right now--the tumour perforated her intestines. They not only need to get the growth out, they need to scrabble to repair as much as they can.

Even if all goes well, she is going to be in the hospital for days.

The SU's awkward--but still determined--persistence hit major affirmation today.

At the vet's, it was all no temp, no pain, nothing wrong, go home.

But I have been merciless nagging the SU to listen to instincts and feelings. They're not everything, but we have them for a reason.

Well. Even though I did not pomp back with an Alec Guiness 'I told You So', each time, or any time, some situ exploded and the SU ended up pacing in frenzy and self-flagellating with "I KNEW I should / shouldn't have..."

Even without the dub of Obi Wan, the SU did not back down. Probably rolling their eyes and snarking, the vet did an ultrasound.

Hello tumour!

And hello to referral to Brilliant Hospital: I was expecting you.

But even the good doctors were confused and horrified. The scans show this thing is ripping her insides apart. Yet she has no sign of fever or pain.

They just don't know my Hissy girl.

One Christmas Eve, we noticed her limping. Just a tiny bit. The SU decided she had just strained a paw somehow.

Then I caught a glimpse of her leg in brighter light...and totally lost my shit.

Her leg was black.

Not her fur.

Her SKIN was black.

Emergency vet visit immediately deployed.

(This is why our vets don't suck completely; they ENCOURAGE 24 hr access.)

Anyway, it turned out one of her claws had decided to curl back and grow INTO her foot. It had grown VERY deep into the pad of her paw, and the resulting infection got so bad that, yes, her whole leg was black. We never got a clear answer on just how much longer before she either died or lost her freakin leg. But, better not to know.

Her and pills is whole 'nother epic. It has given her both the nick--and the verb--'Linda Hamilton'....

Thing is, she has an established medical history of having a horrible condition, but showing no sign at all of fever or what should be excruciating pain.

I'd give them all some Lenore Eye, except I'm told some of them teared up for us.

As much as I'm sick over this surgery, I'm also dreading when she wakes up. Because I know she's going to be utterly terrified...and there is absolutely nothing I can do...

Fuck.

Cancer Squared

2011-02-14T11:13:00.003-04:00

No point in fucking around.

I just heard from the SU.

Hissy has been diagnosed with Cancer.

The fates are cruel.

But this?

We're fucking cursed, I swear.

My girl is at the hospital now, with her own referral and the best doctors on this continent. They'll be giving her tests all day, trying to determine if chemo or surgery can give her more or better time.

Pheen heard me crying, and came upstairs to comfort me. I can't explain to him what's happened, but he knows it's bad. When the pain of my illness makes me scream and cry, he doesn't come. Not really. It's...routine, I guess, so he ignores it. This time, he felt srs bsns.

I had designed Eternity Circles for both my guys, and I just found an artisan willing to make them. They'll wear the pendants just like they did their cat tags, but each one has a personal message, as well as their name. And these ones can't tarnish. They're forever, just like family.

I couldn't make them just as I wanted; I couldn't afford to. But really, nothing I could make would be as beautiful as they are.

The Circles were designed so that they are reversible and can be threaded onto a necklace. And when they can no longer carry them, I will wear my children at my heart for however long my life is....

Valentines Day...and the rest of my poor heart, was irrevocably broken...

Of course.

Hiss

2011-02-14T08:33:00.003-04:00

As I type this, Hissy is on her way to the vet.

She's stopped eating. And drinking. She doesn't come when she's called.

Yes, Hissy always reported immediately when called. She's always been a...confused dog in a cat's body.

So she's seeing a doctor. We don't fuck around with medical stuff here. We know better. We learned it in the worst ways.

I should be with her, but it wasn't an option even mentioned. My own medical condition is currently...very grim, and I think the SU made the unilateral decision to worry sick about one person. Not two.

But I feel horrible. Not just because of my medical situ, natch. Not just because I could lose Phoenix and Hissyfit, together. The utter agony of the prospect...but you can't control fate. The same thing that brought them to me was always going to take them away. But you always think it will be later, so later...so late as to be never. You have to, or you'd refuse to connect to anyone.

And that, that will bring you more pain than it saves...

I feel so bad because I'm not there. And she's seeing the vet, not the hospital. You need a referral to get access to the good doctors. She doesn't get to coast in because her brother has one. But I feel the most horror because she left here in a cat carrier.

Hissy is terrified of leaving the house. She will be screaming herself hoarse in her terror, the whole time she is out.

The way she is supposed to go to the vet's is: inside a bag.

More specifically, inside my black pleather backpack. I wear it in reverse, and buckle it in with me. I keep the bag closed, except for having enough room for me to slip one hand in, to keep pressed against her, as I talk to her, constantly, trying to remind her that at least she's not alone, that she is loved.

There's no frantic screaming this way. Though, of course, we're both still scared.

But I'm not there.

I know this was an obvious logical decision for the SU. But I know that, right now, she's frantic with terror. And it feels like my stomach is being cut out with broken glass.

With sick, and with shame...

Sign of the Apocalypse #4325834584773 (...or maybe #4325834584778...the writing in this rescued Illuminated Manuscript is such a BITCH...)

2011-02-04T12:04:00.006-04:00

I am watching Bieber on my Daily Show.

BIEBER.

And he is actually....funny?

I think. I think, I...

I AM LAUGHING AT THE FETUS.

In a way he meant me too, rather than in that vaguely guilty--but also cringingly sympathetic--way I laugh at most teenagers. When they are obliviously acting like stupid asshats.

Because we all did that. Even the sweetest and most logical of us. We at least have a yearbook photo--or, ick, a write up--that now makes us feel sick if thrown at us. At the time, everything seems deadly serious and perfectly normal--even beautiful or badass--and then five years or ten or so later, the hormone levels drop off into 'sane'...and the lifetime mortification begins.

How much worse is that when you're famous, and every awkward mistake you've ever managed is preserved--and thrown in your face over and over and over...

We live in a world where the Poetry of Shame you wrote at fifteen is preserved worldwide FOREVER...

Even if you're not The Fetus.

And German doesn't exist in America:

I..I just can't even watch. My secondhand embarrassment is so intense I nearly pass out.

I'd say that I should take some comfort that he lies and IDs himself as American, but no. As humiliating as he is, it deeply DEEPLY pisses me off when Canadians, usually whoring for money, try to pass as American.

Of course, I have extra acidic bile to spit about it because I've had so many editors try to force me to do the same....stabby stabby stab...

Not So Silent Hill

2011-02-03T09:21:00.003-04:00

My neighbour just started his snowblower.

He has no idea that the only reason I'm not out there feeding him to it is that the sound, instantly, amped my migraine to the point where I couldn't see. And it brought back the ringing in my ears. It's a piercing blare, like a school bell, where the kids are never let out.

Probably something from Silent Hill...

(The original, thank you. Or 2, we can go for two. Pyramid Head is def going at my innards with that knife. That scraping horror, bigger than an old growth tree. Although, given it's sources, I'm sure it is all about...wood. But the important thing is, hey, focus now, is: the others don't exist. Not in my canon. Not in anyone's. Not even in the most fragile--and rusted, natch--trebuchet ).

Well.

I can't do anything about the vision, or the hearing, or the pain that has kept me awake for weeks.

But I am wearing my ear buds, plugged into nothing. It's the only thing left I can do, that won't make the pain worse.

And--of course--I've been summoned to see the specialist this afternoon. :|

Because, clearly, what I really need is for things to get worse...

This is why I really need Castiel.

THAT is some sleep I can use.

He won't waste words on the medical community...

Because, lo, actions have clearer meaning...

And now, we return to regular programming: back to the fetal position, grimacing in agony at the sound of my own heartbeat...

And, In An Instant...

2011-01-12T18:01:00.002-04:00

I never want to eat again.

This is 'Why, Yes, Of Course It's Asparagus Mousse....', brought to you by the truly special collection of glen.h.

Who would eat this? Who? HOW? Although I DO understand capturing the unbelievable in photo form....But this was not that, THIS came from a professional COOKBOOK.

And yet it looks like it was sculpted from the results of my hideous infection.

I hope this thing was sold in a screened section of the store, for protection and general health.

This section could only be titled 'Gifts for People You Really REALLY Hate...'

Comics, and More Comics, and Living Illuminated Manuscripts (ft. Robots), and Dancing...Oh, and Boobs, ABSOLUTELY YES on Boobs

2011-01-06T14:58:00.007-04:00

If my pain level gets any worse, you will be able to hear me scream. From wherever you are.

Yes, even if you are in the Marianas Trench...

(And if you are, I am SO. Fucking. Jealous.)

But since sharing pain isn't any fun--at least not at this level--I need to make sure you've seen these. Because, like Josh, they make your life Complete.

Why yes, I DO now own the Director's Cut of Masterpiece Theatre. Complete with dvd...and TRADING CARDS, bitch!

Also, you totally NEED to pick up Fix Me.

Hey, they're a Canadian band. Josh is pure sweet amazeballs--at least three of them--but...he needs your dollar to eat today.

I at least want them able to afford real KD. Not the Sobey's brand, that turns green as you're eating it, as if by the decomposed taste you couldn't tell how diseased it really is...

But it is a different genius I came to share. No, no, not portableapps.com. You need those too, badly, but they're not going to make you laugh.

Not like comics and dancing and absurdly brilliant light displays...oh, and boobs. NEVER FORGET BOOBS.

Here we go:

Conan's Ultimate Set:

Both my geek self and my art self were panting and flaily armed with joy. My green self cringed when it thought of the power consumption, but then omgomgomg....THIS has to be worth it. HAS TO. Hell, I nearly live in the dark. And I just got an LED monitor / tv. It has to balance out. Right? RIGHT?

And I totally wanted to adopt the Robo-Rabbi. He was like #5, but just pure awwwww squeee; zero annoying attempts to be with it and happening and rad, that is, a douchebag.

For our next presentation, we have to keep with Conan and distilled geekitude:

I freely admit the only DC comic I have ever bought or owned--and it's still in my pull list--is the Unwritten. And yet, if you didn't laugh so hard watching those clips that you choked, multiple times, and seriously thought you might die, but that would be okay, good, okay, fine...I demand you hand over your geek card, to be stripped of its Mylar. Then, it will be dipped in liquid nitrogen, and flung to the floor. The humiliated bits that remain will be scraped up and hurled into a vat of hydrochloric acid, of a MINIMUM 12 molarity.

No, you can't watch. Because this is going to be cool *seal claps of glee*

I would include here the recent Daily Show bit, where Jon Stewart clearly lays out how Obama is not a failure, he's a Jedi, but I don't know if you can handle its brilliance. More importantly, Viacom is always instakilling or region blocking EVERYTHING, so I couldn't find a handy bite-sized piece that (hopefully!) everyone could see. *Turns to ceiling cam, with raised shaking fists* Damn you, Viacom!

So instead, I leave you with--The Dance:

Biotic

2011-01-05T15:50:00.003-04:00

On my first doctor's appt yesterday...

Despite feeling like I still have a very angry alien about to snap through my ribs at any moment, and the fact that my breathing sounds like Darth Vader...or rather like I stuck on the fishbowl helmet of one of those old diving suits? And oh yeah, someone--or several someones--is standing on my air line. Yes, despite this, my lungs were declared fine.

O.o

Seriously?

Yes, quite.

And my sinuses were declared fucked.

:|

And I got put on my THIRD course of antibios for this damn death flu.

Although, maybe it was all worth it, just for when the SU opened my new bottle of meds and recoiled in horror, declaring, "What are THESE? Horse suppositories??!!"

Note To Pharm Companies: please study a HUMAN esophagus before deciding how much filler to wrap into your pill. These bitches are like twice the size of a Centrum! And no one--expecting, perhaps, a heavily abused porn star--can swallow a Centrum.

While his printer was sending out my prescription, my doctor asked me if I had ever taken my pulse. My face involuntarily twisted up, knowing where this was going. I replied that my resting heart rate now is well over a hundred, and that I'm told it's part of my disease. His face continued to do this...well, I was going to just emoticon here, but there isn't one that truly captures the disdaining frown. I added that my resting rate in high school was always well under sixty. The frown did not change.

Instead I got ordered to take ANOTHER thyroid test, with the helpful toss that I could to it the same day as the liver one.

As for my second doctor's appt...

Fuck no, I am not getting into that...mess...of terror.

If anyone needs me, I'm still in my bed, flinching with constant panic, and frequently convulsing.

Yay.

I did manage, by sheer bitchitude, to get my self downstairs to get Boo...Second Breakfast? First Supper? My boy hoovered so enthusiastically, he ate the half can I put down for him in the time it took for me to get a little spoonful across the room to Hissy.

Hissy not only refused to eat, she cowered away, bolted up the stairs so frantically she had to have hurt herself, and hid from me.

Thanks, dear daughter. I really needed that.

So I did the only good thing I could do. I managed to scrap down the other half can for Pheen. And then I crawled upstairs. Literally.

For the record: fuck. That's it. Just...FUCK.

It's Not Easy Being Green

2011-01-03T12:16:00.003-04:00

I am still in the agony of the death flu.

I mean that quite literally, as the congestion pain is crushing my skull, and shooting down nerves of my chest and back. I would be constantly screaming--if I had a voice.

It may be literal on the mortality part too. I've had death flus before--the kind the just keep getting worse and worse, and I've spent my time with antibiotics and nebulizers.

Bu this flu is entering three months, and, impossibly, I'm still getting worse. I've been through two rounds of antibios. Because--of course--it's given me a respiratory infection that won't die either. When I went to the clinic--because the doctors are all on holiday--they wouldn't let me stay in the waiting room.

Let me be clear, the waiting room was crammed full of people who were coughing and spraying mucus in every direction. I was endlessly coughing too--the pain, it felt like the alien would rip out of my chest at any moment, but even delirious and exhausted, I was spitting my horrific fluids into tissues and dropping them into my bucket. I, by necessity, had become very efficient at this assembly line.

But I, who was the only one at least making at effort to keep my disease to myself, I was too disgusting to wait with everyone else. Instead, I got the humiliation of being ordered to wait in the washroom--easily the most filthy repulsive place they could come up with. I hurt so bad, and I was so weak, that I couldn't manage to stay upright. I ended up stumbling into the corner, and leaning into the wall so I wouldn't fall down.

I waited like that for more than an hour.

The doctor, in about two seconds, diagnosed me as "infected". But I didn't get pulled away by scary people in Haz-Mats. I just got my second run of antibios, which, it seems, this thing has laughed at...

Here is how brutal this flu really is. The SU finally got it. Yes. The Teflon Immune System (tm) was breached. In a big way. Yes. Respiratory infection. First ever. Not only antiobios, the doctor said to use my asthma puffers. Why did the doctor not just prescribe them? Who the fuck knows. But I had to break out the aerochamber.

But, in the dark, around 6am on the 25th, I had the best present ever stroll up the bed and cuddle into me, purr already activated, for the perfect Hello / Good Morning / I Love You.

I wish we weren't sick, but I'll take anything to have my family together. His doctors say that Phoenix is doing great. They plan to switch his chemo soon to every other week. With that revelation, I sobbed like crazy. My brain couldn't help it. It did insta-math, calculated that meant we were halfway, and that meant we only had two, maybe three, months left.

Cue me losing my shit.

Every day, every MOMENT with him is precious. I've been so angry about this flu, because, on top of everything else, it means I'm not there for him the way I need to be. I won't get a do-over, and there's so little time left. That will hurt forever. The only comfort I've had is that I can't give him this flu. But my son deserves so much better. So much better than me. And so much better than life gave him.

It should have been me. He's a better person than I am. And my health....it's not good anyway.

But no, fate choose my son, at sixteen.

It's good that we don't know what's coming. We'd never go forward if we did. But to miss the pain, the terrible pain, we would have to miss all the joy and love and beauty.

I think now of how fate only gave me two children. I wanted so many more. And they just...didn't come. But fate knew what it was doing. The pain of not having them come, it now seems like a scratch. Because the pain of having them forced to go, is....is just.. everything ripped apart...

Organs...Rambling...And More Organs, I Guess...And Havering...And Then, Well, Organs (Not The Kind With Keys)

2010-12-23T06:26:00.005-04:00

Listening to: Enrique Inglesias ft. Ludacris - Tonight (I'm Fuckin You)

--Hell yes it's on repeat, and we don't do 'clean' versions around here. Censorship is shit. And it can so go fuck itself. I had to! You know, this theme, it's actually frightfully appropriate. Getting fucked (over), by everything and everyone, was pretty much the unifying thread for all of us in the saga of the Dragon Lair this year. Well. Fuck twenty-ten. I should have known you'd be nasty when you didn't cough up jet packs and hovercars that run on the power of thought.

Dirty thoughts are non-polluting, obvs.

Been reading: Earth - The Audio Book; Married with Zombies; The Romance of Dollard (for PG); Old New Brunswick - A Victorian Portrait (for research, and because the c1900 photos of New Brunswick are just...impossible. Seriously. You can't believe they're real. The Loyalists sobbed in despair a century earlier at how desolate and bleak and harsh their new home was. And if you dropped them--and me--into 1900 New Brunswick, we'd still be completely hysterical. And I...am so NOT a metropolis person...)

Hope to Read Today: I'd like to kill Dollard today for PG, but lo, it is hard. I really want more Canadian content and / or more women represented in Gutenberg, and it still kills me that estimates are that more than 80% of our early literature and public documents were lost in deliberate fires. It kills me worse that, by sheer random, it's crap like this book that survived. ARGH. But I believe in the public domain. I believe in its mission, to preserve, freely for everyone, our stories and our history, and everything of who and what we are. Information and art are like the light of a candle, or a hug. You can give it away, and lose nothing. In fact, you gain so much more.

And yes, with our history and our art, we have to save the shitty parts along with everything else. Because none of us has the right to censor, abridge, or edit. And, we NEED to remember: the truth of who we are isn't always awesome, but it made us who we are.

Oh, and really hope to attack my comic stack. It's huge; I'm so far behind. Bitches like Cancer and hospitals have really fucked up precious time I need to spend with vampires and Shakespeare.

Looking forward to watching: Well, I burn through Conan and the Daily Show as fast as I can get them, and most everything is off now, but I do have the finale of Mythbusters. Oh, and I still have a Human Target. Guerrero and I? We are BFFs for life. Seriously, dude. Seriously.

Wishing that: I already got the most important thing. My family is still here. Well, not ALL my family, but the ones who live with me, thank all. Phoenix continues to be one of the best...everything. And I'm so proud and grateful for my son. And I so so hope that he keeps being my boy--an adorable brilliant sweetie and a stubborn as fuck badass--who is still kicking the shit out of cancer five years from now. The hospital staff is totally in love with him already; they all know his name, but they also call him 'Superstar!'. I'm honestly surprised they didn't shower him with holiday presents...but then, how do I know they didn't? *thoughtful squint* I know they do lots of stuff for him that never shows up on the bills--like treats, and grooming. And I mean professional grooming. I've cut my own hair for decades, but my son has an elite professional stylist who spoils him for free. Yep. All is as it should be. :D

I also wish I had some painkillers. I woke up at 5am, with the pain more gruesome than yesterday. and it just keeps building. I'm typing all this to try to stop screaming. I don't know how long that can help. I'm shocked it's gotten this far.

But, although the delay is much more pleasant, I have to get to the point sometime.

You know it's not a good week, when you're only halfway through Wednesday, and you've been to the doctor, twice, and the hospital, twice.

I still have an ungodly death flu that has been kicking my ass--on top of all my other crap--for, oh, six to eight weeks. And I was actually getting worse with time. Not good. But I wasn't at the doctor for the flu; I was there to special order allergy tests. My doctor refused to help us on this, so we had to do the research ourselves, which was a bitch that made the SU insane with rage: because the companies refused to talk to us because we weren't a doctor's office.

Eventually, the SU found a company in Canada who does the type of testing we need, but they were sticking by the not-a-doctor's-office blockade. Being so close, and so very very fucking stressed, the SU refused to let go, and kept calling back, over and over. Emphatically explaining how dangerous my allergies were and how dickish my doctor was being. And, finally, after easily placing more calls than the SU has to everyone, all year, combined, random or fate shined on us all. We got somebody with common sense and compassion. Or, at least somebody who knew that doctors are total dicks.

They provided download links to all the paperwork and instructions required. The only problem now was: it's a medical procedure, so that paperwork still needs a doctor's signature of requisition.

Cue Monday's showdown.

I pretty much just sat there, head throbbing from horrific congestion, still blowing my nose endlessly as the SU efficiently eviscerated the opposition. Signature captured, the SU was more than ready to get the hell out.

(As a final dick move, they insisted we go to the hospital for the bloodwork.)

But the doctor suddenly wanted to talk about my cold. I said it was the worst flu I'd ever had. My doctor insisted there was no flu in the province. I, still continuously assembly lining puffs tissues with lotion, replied that this virus had to be a flu, not just for severity, but because the cold virus is short term, 24-48 hrs at most.

Then my doctor, against all of my previous scientific education and training, insisted: flus were short and harmless; colds were long.

At this point, I just stopped talking, before my head exploded.

From something other than the brutal sinus pressure that constantly felt like someone was breaking out my face and teeth with a hammer.

He did insist on talking about my symptoms, looking down my throat and ears, listening to my lungs. He said my lungs were good, which seemed insane, insomuch as my breathing sounded like someone had partially melted an accordion in a microwave.

As I crept off the exam table, I mentioned my urine was darker than normal. Pressed for description, I said it's kind of orange, and my urine is normally clear.

So, of course, I had to pee in a bottle.

I have to do this--or bleed my own blood into a test tube--at least as often as regular people brush their teeth.

The result was horrifying. In the past hour, my urine had decided to change it up for a new colour palette.

It was now maroon. Deep maroon. Almost opaque brown, but with a tint of red.

Immediately, my brain remembered House episodes, where there is a dramatic reveal to the side of the patient's bed, where there is a bag, suddenly now THIS EXACT COLOUR. And someone says something cheery like: 'His kidneys are failing.'

Shaking, when I handed over my bottle, I got scolded with: 'That isn't orange.'

I replied, 'Nooooo, that is more...maroon. But it WAS orange, even just an hour ago.'

They did the dip test. It detected nothing, not even blood. My doctor suggested--seriously--that I ate something with food dye.

Again, my cranium wanted to bathe the walls. Frequent exposure to medical situs, means I can contain myself. I just said I hadn't eaten anything new, and my urine has never looked like that before, except when I have one of my severe rapid-onset infections.

He replied there was no infection; the tests were normal.

The SU was not about to just let that go: 'THAT is not normal.'

Doctor: 'Food dyes...'

I kind of zoned out at this point. Either from pure exhaustion and misery, or just to save some sanity.

I just know I snapped to when I was handed a second bottle, and told to use it for cultures at the hospital. Then we had to do paperwork with the receptionist, and off to the hospital I staggered. Wanting desperately to just be in bed, fighting a miserable flu.

Dropping off my urine was easy. Well, except that it still hurt to pee. Something else I've repeatedly mentioned to my doctor that he insists is normal. :|

Getting my blood drawn for the allergy test was a mess. They were utterly confused, and finally had to call in someone else, who they said had done this before. I still have no idea if they used the right type of tubes, or shipped it as instructed. But they better not have fucked up. Medicare won't cover allergy tests of any kind, so we have to pay for it ourselves. Six. Hundred. Dollars.

I feel terrible about how much my illness takes away from the SU, but now I'm constantly sick with worry about what it takes away--or might take away--from Phoenix. As it is, we only managed about half of the available allergen panels, and my guilt is still enormous. Boo is also why I'm not at the ER right now. I can't bear it, leaving him alone, not knowing--

There's nothing the ER can--or rather, WILL--do anyway. At best, they keep me there for 8 to 12 hrs, in the agony of noise, brilliant light, freezing rooms, IVs, and medical 'professionals'--all making the pain worse. While they mostly complain about the space I take up, as they grudgingly give me tiny doses of pain meds over hrs, grilling me each time about the pain and is it gone yet. I get sent home when they refuse to give me any more meds, when I hit some unknown number the doctor on duty has decided is what I'm allowed. Often, either because it keeps progressing or from the exposure to so many things that make it worse, I go home with more pain than I came in with.

Anyway, Monday, after what felt like days of stumbling like a zombie, and trying desperately to think, think at all, with my brain filled with mucus, I got to stumble home and crawl painfully into my blessed bed.

And within two minutes of waking up on Tuesday, I got the news that there was a liver enzyme in my urine. I was to report to the hospital immediately for a blood test. My doctor's office was going to fax over the requisition, so I could skip the two hour trip to my doctor's office.

Nearly falling over many times trying to get dressed--stupid flu--my mind again went right to House. This time, my brain tried to pre-calm any panic by reminding me that the liver is the one organ you can actually borrow from somebody else. Not that I have anybody I could ever ask for a cup of liver, but, the deal is you can do that because the liver can regenerate. If your liver is borked, it's not like having your heart or your brain go...

The blood lab greeted me laughing about how much I must love their company. Once again, I bled my own blood and stumbled home.

The SU got the results from the doctor's office Wednesday. They were classed as 'abnormal'. They eventually broke and admitted that there were multiple liver enzymes in my urine. They refused to say more than that without an appointment.

So, the SU had to ditch work, again, come gather me and impart delightful news, and once again make my furious body make the two hour trip to the doctor's office.

The doctor was sticking to his 'food dye' scenario. Although when called on how the hell does that explain liver enzymes, he kind of blathered around for even longer than usual, and finally tossed out that I had a blocked duct, that was blocked by gallstones, the blockage broke, and I passed the gallstones, which dissolved completely, giving me, with a perfect coincidence in timing, a spike of liver enzymes from the dissolved stones. He said he was certain of it.

He then popped open his cupboard and handed me another bottle.

I looked at it in my hand, smirked, and said, "I feel like I'm always peeing in bottles."

He replied, "That's what sickly people do."

I sighed, "My body. It likes to keep things interesting."

And, smirking into his keyboard, he said, "It's not your body."

I still don't know what the fuck he meant by that. Not for sure. But if he meant the usual crap about how nothing is wrong with your body, it's all in your head. I would like to know how in the actual fuck my mind can change the colour of my urine. Or spike it with liver enzymes. And back when I was getting this shit from lots of doctors, specialists, who insisted the only thing wrong with me was that I was an attention whore. I would like them to explain how my mind filled my abdomen with growths. Nasties that took two surgeries and a team of specialised surgeons to remove. And they couldn't remove it all, and it can regrow anytime, and the disease that gave it to me is progressive, so I'll have ever worsening agony for the rest of my life, among its long list of joys.

Or hey, maybe the surgical team imagined it too.

How divine, that we should come together, all sad attention whores.

But I didn't say anything. I'm sick of trying. It's exhausting and it gets me nowhere. It's just not worth trying to reason with that depth of moron.
For some bizarre reason, possibly hospital policy, he ordered an ultrasound.

I guess I visibly cringed. Understandable, since I just suffered one that was TWO HOURS long. I spent the whole time screaming. The tech did my whole torso, front and back. She was shoving so hard the whole time, it actually felt like she was trying to kill me. If it was possible to make that blunt instrument--the roller ball thing--actually impale flesh, she would have done it. Maybe she just needs to work out her upper body more.

She actually, finally, after two hours, called in her supervisor. Because she couldn't find the basic body part she was supposed to take an image of. I wish I was fucking exaggerating.

Afterwards, the SU, who was not allowed to be the room during the test, had to actually carry me from the hospital. I was in so much agony, I couldn't walk. My hair and clothes were completely sodden with sweat, and, despite my shame, I couldn't hold in the sobbing any more. Although I was crying from pain, yes, but also from pure fucking rage.

So yeah, when my doctor signed me up for another ultrasound, I probably flinched.

"Is there a problem?" he said.

"They hurt." I tried not to fly apart into a total hysterical panic attack. "They hurt SO MUCH. That last one, I spent two hours screaming, and--"

I think I was going to add about how badly I bruised, but I got cut off with him laughing.

"Ultrasounds don't hurt," he said, still laughing with an enormous grin. "No one has ever told me that they hurt."

I shut up. We were back at pointless. But, as it happens, everyone I'VE ever talked to insists they hurt like fuck. I know a person who went through multiple surgeries without painkillers, but cried through every ultrasound. In fact, this person didn't just say the ultrasound hurt worse than labour, the insistence was it hurt more than the c-section.

Stop and process that for a moment.

My pain level is cranking further up. Trying to make words isn't distracting me enough anymore. I'm going to have to try something else.

Besides this thing is already an essay--it took me six hours to write this bitch--and it's so long nobody will make it to the end. So I'll just slip in here that I watched dinosaur porn. Really. Tyrannosaurus Sex. It was from the Discovery channel! That makes it classy. Totally educational. And so so funny...

Heartbroken...and Bleeding...But Still Beating

2010-12-03T18:56:00.003-04:00

The SU just gave me an update from his doctors, and from the SU's visit with Boo today.

The treatments are going fine, but our boy is losing patience with all the poking and prodding. My son has never hid his feelings, but I've taught him not to be violent. So, he employs passive resistance. He used to be able to use his strength and his weight. He'd brace and go dead-weight, just to make things as hard as possible. But, fuck you cancer, he doesn't have his weight trick anymore. And his doctors aren't deterred by Mr Grumpy Gills attempts at growling. So he came up with something new, something special just for his doctors.

He pees on his blanket.

Deliberately.

The litter box is like two steps away, but he's using the weapons he has.

Hey, I taught him biting and clawing were not acceptable. But I never said anything about urine.

That's still passive. Okay, passive-aggressive. :P

He won't eat at the hospital either, so the SU waited for the right moment, and broke out the contraband. ie. a can of Fancy Feast.

Pheen dove into it....but, too soon, the door opened with medical staff checking in on him. Boo ran back into his carrier and pretended nothing had happened.

He wouldn't be coaxed into eating after that, didn't know when THEY might come back. So the SU had to fall on the backup and syringe him the rest.

That was the good news.

The bad news...

In checking him for his treatments, they found a heart murmur. The SU, of course, gave them permission to perform an ECG.

They found thickening of his heart.

Apparently they have scale of just how oh shit this is. They have him a 2 out of 6. Their heart specialist said he won't need any medication, but he'll need to have another ECG in a year, to see if it gets worse.

I totally broke out sobbing like a little bitch at that, and the SU was all like no, no, no! He's okay! He's fine!

And gulping down tears, so it felt like I was trying to swallow a cannonball, I was shaking my head. I finally managed to get out, "You don't understand. A year. A year," and I utterly started to lose it again, just like I am am now, "I want him to be here in a year. I want him to need that test..."

Anyway...their heart specialist is doing a study, on the exact thing our boy has, and her study wants to find out if blood marks can predict who this will happen to. They could get earlier treatment, less heart damage, and live longer.

She wanted Pheen to join the study. All she needed was a blood sample.

The SU immediate concern was that it wouldn't hurt Phoenix. Well, obviously taking blood hurts, but Pheen is still anemic. His doctors were confident that 1ml of blood would not be a problem. So the SU gave permission.

I really really hope our little boy is able to help save someone else's.

I also hope, somehow, he's here to gloat about it, for a long, long time...

Don't Play Telephone With Me...EVER

2010-12-03T18:34:00.003-04:00

The thing that keeps calling me is really lucky I haven't perfected my mental power to stab people in the face.

I know it's a telemarketer, because the disgusting fuckers won't leave a message. But every time the phone rings I nearly throw up all my internal organs. Because Phoenix is in the hospital. Two nights of overnight treatments. I am in agony.

And I can't just unplug the phone. BECAUSE PHEEN IS IN THE FUCKING HOSPITAL. If something goes horribly wrong, his doctors insist on rechecking about consent, etc.

I have never wanted to kill a telemarketer so badly.

...and that's saying something.

Down and Up

2010-11-30T08:37:00.003-04:00

I've not been up to much--not just updating the blog, but anything, even talking to people. My own medical condition is....dire, but no one is going to get any joy talking about failed treatments or how much pain I'm, or how long it takes me to get out even a single simple sentence. My muscles aren't working properly. Typing this post hurts, and it will probably take me hours...

But that's not what matters.

Pheen is under my bed. Days three to five after chemo are the worst. He's extra nauseous, and I can hear his poor belly gurgling angrily along with mine. He's also sad and withdrawn, and can't be comforted. I get that he feels like total crap, and snuggles won't make it go away. But I wish they would. For him.

Except for the painfully routine soul-crushing chemo smackdown, he's been doing pretty well. His new medication is still helping him eat. Not enough, but he can eat about half of his food on his own--and way better, he can enjoy it. The other half he's still getting by syringe. But we're winning.

He gets a full check up before every weekly chemo treatment. We were fighting so so hard to stop him from losing more weight....

This week, his weight was up 0.2 kilos.

To put that in perspective, that's like an average human putting on 15 lbs in a week. Oh yeah, WHILE they have terminal cancer and are on chemo.

His doctors thought we were all made of serious amazeballs when we were able to maintain his weight. Putting on weight, any weight, let alone a good amount of it, was yet another thing my boy shouldn't have been able to do.

Yes! Score some more for Team Stubborn!

But we have to give a big squishy hug to pharmaceuticals. I used to be a chemist; the SU's still one. Neither of us had any idea when we went into the field how very much it would really shape and shelter our lives. I would go into details, but only the hardcore geeks could ever care, and then there's the whole Confidentiality Agreements thing...

Oh, and the new med is also helping him sleep. That first time, finding him curled up. with his eyes closed, and deep sighing the blissful breaths of a REALLY good nap--I had to use my fists to stuff down a sob.

It was involuntary, I swear.

I hadn't seen him sleep in weeks. Months, actually. He was exhausted. He spent most of hie time lying, limp, his eyes ripping my heart out by drooping halfway, endlessly, with sheer misery and fatigue. But, our symptoms were cruelly matching up again. No matter what, he couldn't sleep.

Yes, Cancer is that vicious a motherfucker. It even breaks a cat's ability to sleep.

But with this new med, he can doze. It's not as deep or relaxed as his usual sleep, but it tears me up every time. My poor boy.

I wish I could fix everything for him, but still, we found a way to bring back noms and naps, at least a little.

I'm so grateful for the options available to our boy, and the wonderful staff that's helping treat him. I'm also anti-grateful to his insurance company, who, despite so many years of faithful regular payments by us, decided 'Oh shit! This Cancer crap is expensive!' and cut him. I'd say may they die in a fire, but, you know, it would be more appropriate to wish them, or someone they love dearly, cancer. And with the odds being 1 in four, it's so going to happen, bitches. So may you have someone in charge of treatment who is just as ethical and respectful and sympathetic as you have been. Enjoy!

As for me, I'm fighting my condition as hard as I can, trying to hold on and cherish every purr and every nuzzle, and, most especially, every night of family snuggle time (tm).

If you haven't hugged your family yet today, go, hurry! You're wasting your day. And make every hug count.

You never know how many you have...

Eat Your Heart Out

2010-11-19T14:26:00.004-04:00

It's been a rough month here at the Dragon Lair.

Phoenix and I have felt like we're competing in the world's most sadistic reality show. To see who can have more emergency trips to the hospital, who can have more tests, who can have the worst test ever (tm), who can scare the crap out of the rest of the family the most, etc.

We're taking the same amount of medications, even many of the same medications--only the dosage is different. When the hospital ran out of Pheen's latest medication, the SU hunted down our former pharmacist, who left our pharmacy because Shoppers appears to be worse than the Hellmouth to work for. Sadly, we're stuck there, with the total morons they replaced her with, because the other pharms are rarely ever open. I don't have enough health to have a pharm that keeps fucking bank hours. And neither does my poor little Boo...

My former pharmacist didn't just fill my babies prescription; she pre-cut it into quarter tablets for him. See? She's amazing.

He had his first dose last night, fighting it like pure hell, of course, as he does all his pills.

This afternoon, I woke up, fumbling and whimpering to try to get my screaming body out of bed. You know, the usual. As I began to limp to the bathroom, I heard papers downstairs. Lots of papers. Like somebody was rolling in a recycling bin.

What the hell was Boo doing down there?

He used to do that when he heard me wake up, and wanted me to come and say hi downstairs. He never understood that it hurt me to take the stairs, and he'll never know.

I'd been summoned. So, clinging to the wall, I started the slow agonising limp down the stairs. My eyes were trying to tear up, and fear was trying to freak out, because he hadn't done this in months. I was trying to convince myself that it was a good thing he wanted me...

And then, having heard me on the steps, he crunched food.

My heart did something in my chest that was really really painful, but...so so happy.

I got down the stairs as fast as could, shaking, tears splatting, joy throbbing my chest like I was outdoing the Grinch at Christmas.

And then, when he knew I'd gotten far enough that I could see him, he popped his head up to beam at me, and then went right back to crunching food.

Pheen hasn't been able to eat food since...even before his diagnosis. It was why I pushed for an emergency appt at the vet. He went from 14 lbs of Maine Coon power and muscle to...the most horrifying emaciated....He wasn't even 8 lbs by the time we could get him a vet appt. In just a couple of days, the cancer ate him, and it wouldn't let him eat.

And for the last month, he still couldn't eat anything. He wanted food, he would cry for it. But his body wouldn't let him eat it.

Once again, I had to be strangely grateful for my illness, because I could understand. I've been so hungry, I've cried--not a good place for someone to be who, for years, was tortured by being starved--as my body wouldn't let me swallow food. I would retch and either dry heave or throw up blood, if I even tried to put food in my mouth. I felt so horrible for my boy, because I knew how much it hurt, both mentally and physically, because it feels like your stomach is being ripped out, because the acid just keeps churning and your stomach starts to digest itself.

So I knew the meds to get him for nausea and acid reflux and reducing the acid in your stomach--and he got them all--but I also knew they didn't help enough. I still have to force food down. It's more than fighting down each meal, or each mouthful. With each motion to chew, my body gags and tries to throw up. But I fight. Like all the pain, I fight, and I win even when I lose. Because I have to. Because I have to be here. Because even as badly broken as I am, my family still wants me. They need me. I fight through every test, every hospital stay, every migraine, and worse, by forcing myself to hold on to the guys in my mind. Berating myself, when it hurts so so much and I just want it all to stop, that I can't. I can't ever give up. Because if I don't come home, the guys wouldn't understand...

I don't know if Boo knows that not coming home again is an option. I do know, with certainty, it's not one he'd ever willingly take. We may not share genes, but we might as well have. From the moment we met, the world had united the two most stubborn people ever to exist.

It made his early childhood very...interesting.

His will has managed things with his illness that his doctors can't explain. After his seizure, his blood test read his glucose as undetectable. It also read his white blood cells as undetectable. He shouldn't have been alive, let alone conscious. His only chance was a blood transfusion, and they didn't expect him to survive it. They were certain the cancer had reached his bone marrow, and consumed it completely. He wouldn't be able to make white blood cells. He could die from the bacteria that had been present in his body his whole life. If he did survive the transfusion, they said he would need one every few days, just to keep living. They didn't know if he could ever come home again.

But that wasn't what happened.

We worried like utter hell, beyond every agony. The transfusion went fine. I even met his donor, who is possibly the most mellow cat in existence. He was half gooed, casually washing his face, as he was being my superhero and helping save my dearest little boy.

They kept Pheen in the hospital for two days, but I think the second day was because they were confused. The blood transfusion gave him a tiny bit of white blood cells. The next test was routine, just being absolutely sure his body wasn't rejecting anything.

He was frickin full of white blood cells.

Cue the doctors all looking at each other in mass confusion before the episode of House cuts to commercial.

Trying to figure out WTAF was happening, they looked closer at his blood. The white blood cells were immature. They shouldn't be there.

Ruling out the theory that the massive worry of family can make white blood cells spontaneously create themselves, they were left with only one explanation. His body was weak, but his marrow was fine. Being so depleted and dealing with so much, his body didn't catch on to the crisis until the Red Alert klaxon was screaming. Going 'Oh Shit!', it did something it shouldn't be able to do: it vomited all the white blood cells it had into his blood stream, no matter what stage of development they were at. Immature white blood cells can't brawl like when they're all grown up, but they can fight, and there was A LOT of them.

Yet still, with all that will, my boy couldn't get down food. Absolutely rejecting the feeding tube option, the SU has been feeding Pheen pated food by syringe. Usually four feedings a day, taking about an hour each time. As well as feeding him all of his meds.

Yes, my SU is amazing. Utterly exhausted, but so wonderful. Even more so, because, like me, there is enraged irritation when other humans--Hell yes, I still refuse to call them people. I use that term as a respectful title, for life that is precious and treats others so. And humans? They're the lifeform that deserve it the least--anyway, there is very nearly stabby stabby stab at the scorn, at what they see as a silly waste.

Why is it that the creatures who deserve life least can't be the ones who die miserably with cancer? I know life isn't fair, life is pain--I know my Princess Bride. But sometimes things are so far in the wrong direction you just....

But this afternoon, in my kitchen, was pure and total joy. When I stepped into the corner, where the saucers are kept, Phoenix jogged over purring, shifting from foot to foot in his excitement. My baby wanted food, and hell no was he getting Pate.

I grabbed a chair, chatting to him the whole time about nom-noms, and managed--through my own fierce stubbornness--to get on it and get the box of the Fancy Feast with gravy down without falling and splitting my self to pieces of my Floor of Doom.

And I think I was both laughing and crying with hope and joy as I put down a spoonful of diced chicken with gravy.

Phoenix attacked it, purring.

He even did a kill shake.

Shaking with overwhelming joy for my boy, I think I was making flaily arms. I might have been shifting from foot to foot myself in my excitement. I wanted to cook my baby a whole chicken, for the bliss of seeing him able to eat it.

Hissy had crept down the stairs, out of the library of shame, sadness, and safety (tm), but she was staying at the foot of the stairs. Sighing, I brought some on a saucer to where she was, and then raced back to flailing and watching Phoenix scarf with glee.

And then I made myself fumble up the stairs again, and then fumble right back down, so I could keep watching as I called the SU.

My partner deserves so many things that I can never give, but good news? Today, I had a blessed chunk of that, and someone needed it even more than me...

Now, pardon me, I'm going to post this mess without proofing it. Yes, really. Because, right now, I need to risk more disaster on the stairs, just in case someone is feeling a little nommy....